28 May 2011

Coyote, Rattler, And Thunder

IIII ) lllllllllllllllllllllll Coyote, Rattler, and Thunder (28May11)

1000 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - today is the annual May species count for the city of Lethbridge, and I have been asked to participate by generating a list of all the birds, mammals, insects, herps, and plants in bloom that I observe along my usual survey at the confluence

1012 It has been raining non-stop for more than a week now, so I don't know how many insects will be encountered, and it's very unlikely I'll be able to log rattlesnakes on the list this year, but with the aid of a flashlight and a willingness to peek into holes, we'll see what happens

1034 I begin my count from the moment I walk out my door, where there are magpies and crows visiting our back yard. On the short one kilometer drive from my door to the coulee rim above the confluence, I observe rock doves landing in a stubble field, brewers blackbirds searching for seeds in the same fields, mallard ducks, northern pintails, blue-winged teals and northern shovelers inhabiting prairie potholes, a whimbrel walking the shoreline of one of the potholes, American robins hunting worms on the gravel road, and a western meadowlark singing from atop a powerline. With the window of my vehicle open, I also hear boreal chorus frogs and killdeer

1113 Arriving at the coulee rim, I hear other meadowlarks, as well as Canada geese in the distance. A grey partridge flushes from the grass, and a lone tree swallow flies by at close range. My attention, however, is mainly focused on the ground, taking in the flowering plant species as I start my way down the slope. In the short distance between the parking lot and the bench overlooking the flooded coulee, there are dandelions, two species of musineon, yellow prairie violets, blue penstemon, yellow pucoon, early yellow locoweed, Missouri milkvetch, a ground-hugging purple vetch, narrow-leaved milkvetch, prairie onion, moss phlox (with flowers playing out), goldenbean, butte marigold, colorado rubber plant (with flowers open but no petals yet), bastard toadflax, and tiny spikerushes. Some of the yarrow have buds, but they're not yet open. Pollinating almost every dandelion flower are tiny (photographed) two-winged flies

1155 From the coulee rim to the rattlesnake hibernaculum situated about half way down the slope, I observe more of the same plants as noted above, the only additions being a tiny yellow mustard with a slender stalk growing from a basal rosette of spatula-shaped leaves (possibly small-seeded false flax), plus skunkbrush sumac and cushion milkvetch, both of the latter nearing the end of their flowering cycle. The prairie groundsel is almost in flower, but not opening quite yet. There are several animals to add to the list: a clay-colored sparrow (heard but not seen), a ring-necked pheasant (heard but not seen), a seven spot lady beetle, whitetail deer and northern flickers on the slope, a herd of mule deer along the tree-line below, and a beautiful black widow spider inhabiting the third entrance to the rattler den. The widow not only has the classic hour-glass on her belly, but also yellow and red designs in a line up her back. Really amazing. Unfortunately no snakes though

1301 From the hibernaculum on down to the sagebrush flats and the trail through the brush where I keep my game-cam, the count feels to slows down considerably. I repeatedly observe all the same species as higher up. However, at the transition to the floodplain, there are some new flowers to note: golden currants, saskatoons, saline shootingstar, prairie smoke, white pussytoes, the first-flowering black medick, and a scant few yellowbells that haven't shifted to seed. All the prairie crocus are gone already. There are pink-rimmed sulphur butterflies moving around on the meadows of the sagebrush flat. At the base of the coulee slope, thick with goldenbean, there are Hunt's bumble bees pollinating. I find the larger Nevada bumble bees dormant in the grass, and a very few thatching ants out on the hive. Also nearby, among the dandelions, I see a second two-winged fly (one of the "flower-loving flies" I think) pollinating and find a running crab spider that blends in with the dry grass, waiting in ambush beside one of the flowering heads. As I watch, the spider takes out an unfortunate visiting insect, something like a small leaf-hopper

1340 The game cam had recorded visits by porcupines, coyotes, and several deer over the past week, none of which I suppose can be counted on my species list for today unless I see them myself, even though they have a permanent presence. After resetting the camera, I drop down to the river proper. The Oldman is so swollen, there are enormous trees floating by and the water is breaching the forest. I look around to see what other plants and animals I can add from this micro-environment. There are the leafy spurge, in flower and being pollinated by more flower-loving flies and hover flies. There are cabbage white butterflies flitting about. The trees themselves are in flower: balsam poplar, western cottonwood, narrow-leaf cottonwood. The Sun has come out briefly, and the birds are singing from the forest canopy. I hear and see yellow-rumped warblers, starlings, robin's, redwing blackbirds, and mourning doves. A few mosquitoes are about, not much of a bother, and I see some of the crane flies who are hunting them in the grass. I survey all the trees surrounding the mid-forest meadow, hoping to log the great horned owl family, but they are elsewhere this afternoon, probably perching somewhere along the flooded oxbow where they can take advantage of fleeing rodents. I can hear the approach of a bird that I'm sure nobody else will officially note today. It is Ksiistsikommiipi'kssi, the Thunderbird. No doubt there will be a drenching on the way, so I figure I might as well head back up to the sagebrush flats, and from there make my ascent of the coulee slope

1404 I emerge from the forest at the old cottonwood I call Grampa Tree. It's ancient and massive, with branches drooping to the ground that are larger than most mature trees in the forest. Just as I come into the sagebrush flat, a coyote begins howling and barking in greeting from nearby, low on the slope. I squat down and call back to animal, and it continues it's greeting. I stand up to walk closer, take two steps and stop. My next step would have come down right beside a dark, yearling prairie rattlesnake. It is basking on some grass beside a hole that it has chosen for it's summer den. I crouch down again beside the snake, who is perfectly calm. The whole scene is bringing a lump to my throat. The coyote continues to call at me, the snake rests peacefully within arms distance, and the Thunderbird is now roaring right overhead

1425 When the heavy raindrops begin, I walk. The coyote follows me, stopping now an then to call after me. I return the howls and yips. By the time I reach the path that will take me up the slope, the rain has turned to hail, and there's lightning clashes. I fairly march up to the coulee rim, looking arouforgery little. One final flowering species grows beside the trail in a wet pocket near the top. It is field pennycress. I take a few leaves to munch as I finish the climb, and soon reach my vehicle very pleased with the close of this visit

1427 This world is so beautiful, I've just got a lump in my throat. Twenty minutes ago, I was crouched down in the sagebrush flats at the bottom of the coulee, a coyote calling to me in greeting from low on the slope beside me, a perfectly calm rattlesnake literally within arms reach, and the thunder roaring overhead. It doesn't get better

Obsessing On Purpose

Like most living beings - human or otherwise - I have cultivated a number of behavioural routines and aesthetic predilections that bring structure, or perhaps a sense of security, to my everyday life. In some instances, these quirks and habits border on the embarrassingly obsessive-compulsive. For instance, at nookoowa, I routinely make sure that anything situated on tables or counters be set in an alignment parallel to the edges. Sometimes, nipiitaam or nitana will offset things purposely, just to watch me run around straightening them. On the other hand though, I prefer our tables and countertops to be absolutely empty except when in use, and all items that might otherwise be placed upon them to be neatly stowed away in closets, trunks, and cupboards. I also try to make sure that any like-type objects that happen to be stored on a shelf - such as books, video games, compact discs, statuettes, picture frames, what have you - are neatly aligned and arranged in some pleasing order. My bed must always be made, unless someone’s in it, and nothing beyond sheets, blankets, or pillows belongs on it. It bothers me when clothing is tossed on the floor, or draped anywhere other than on hangers in our closets. Furniture, in the form of couches, cushioned chairs, dining sets, etc. strike me as clutter, limiting the spaces that one would otherwise have available to conduct creative activities. I prefer to sit on the floor, with just a pillow or folded blanket for support. I don’t like any lighting except that which comes from naato’si, nor prolonged periods of electronic noise. The different foods on my plate cannot touch, unless we’re eating Mexican, in which case it must all be mixed together into a bean, cheese, and rice paste. And I don’t think sinks are places to keep dirty dishes, or sponges, or globs of fallen toothpaste… although they are for cleaning such things immediately. The list could go on, all these partialities that are so rarely realized to my satisfaction. The truth of the matter is, in the long run, most of my aesthetic habits bring me more irritation than comfort. Yet I continue to uphold them all the same.

One of my greatest obsessive-compulsive behaviours, a massive sink-hole of energy, and that which applies more than any other to the present project, is an overwhelming desire to document periods of transition in my life. I’ve been journaling since I was about twelve years old, using this practice as a surrogate companion of sorts, with whom to discuss the occasionally strange (and often mundane) changes I’m constantly attempting to make in my life, in whatever direction I happen to be exploring at the time. Over nearly three decades, I’ve experimented with a wide variety of media, from classic stationary and blank books, to audio notes, photography, film, sketching. I’ve written in both first and third person, I’ve tried to approach the practice as story telling, as ethnography, as documentary, as art. But my trouble is this… for me, the final product of my efforts is never good enough. I’m constantly shifting tactics and media. I’ve probably made some stationers fairly rich. In fact, any new idea at all can compel me to destroy prior work and start anew, because my sense is that a fresh journaling project is like an opportunity for the redefinition of self. It’s a personal renewal. A cleansing, a chance to make a vow and completely transform the narratives that guide one’s experiences. An old journal, on the other hand, one that no longer accurately reflects my sensibilities or interests in the present, is to me a blemish, an imperfection, a blatant reminder of the self I’ve already outgrown. Such past projects are like carelessly wrought sculptures, beyond repair. And so I must begin, again and again.

Now I know, some may say that for the artist it is the process that matters, not the product. And there are examples from around the world to demonstrate this claim. There are the Tibetan sculptures made from butter, which melt in the sun. The sacred sand-paintings of the Navajo, scooped-up and discarded at the close of their healing ceremonies. Origami cranes, floating down the rivers of Japan. There are all manner of ikitstakssiistsi to look toward as monuments to the significance of process over product. True. I don’t deny it. But these examples involve at least two aspects that my journals do not. First, they are almost always seen to some stage of human completion, each creative act having a very defined conclusion, the point at which they are left in sacrifice to the sacred beings, the ancestors, the future generations. Which brings up the second distinction they have from my journals – these creative acts are also highly spiritual, inaugurating, feeding, or renewing sacred relationships. And while my journaling practices have always nurtured, I’ve never really approached them as offerings to the forces that sustain my life. Rather, and perhaps sadly, I feel deep down that they have been little more than tools for fostering detachment, as if the immediate activities involved in my pursuits for growth and transformation are somehow not enough in themselves. And I’m aware that it is in large part my history of exposure to an immature and ego-centric global ethos that has conditioned me to such hollow practice.

There is another (and related) reason why I tend to discard imperfect or outdated journals, over-concern myself with the organization of items on my shelving systems, fret obsessively over household clutter, etc. It is because I have been enculturated in an aesthetics that defies nature by placing all like items together, and all unalike items apart. It’s a system partial to concrete categories, surface in its emphasis, allowing little room for metamorphoses, transfigurations, or interconnectivities. In fact, it is a way that fears these complexities and the potential loss of present form. A journal, by its very nature of recording a series of thoughts and life experiences, all of which are unalike except by means of their association to a single person in the midst of constant change, somehow simultaneously calls-to and troubles this aesthetics. As typically carried out, a journal is in essence just another means of imposing false order on the flow of life, both by objectifying experience and by organizing its representation into segments of a linear-time framework that is completely removed from the shifting cyclicality of the natural world. My fluent relationship with both kinds of awareness has, in a sense, rendered me bipolar. I strive for a certain level of systematicity, all the while knowing full well that such order reflects an impoverished approach to negotiating the human condition.

Perhaps what I’ve needed all along is a healthy recognition of both the limitations and potential functionalities of record-keeping practices, particularly in the traditions of aokstakio’p and aisinaakio’p… this, followed by an alterative adoption of those beneficial techniques and media from the established global culture, inwardly, in a manner that augments rather than re-shapes niitsitapia’pii. I am lucky, in this sense, to be already engaged in a learning process through iiyaohkimiipaitapiiyssin, which I’m sure will offer many insights along the way. But all the same, I know that to achieve my vision, to revitalize forms of niitsitapi record-keeping through my journaling practice, I will have to work much more closely with those constant resources I can trust - niitsi’powahsin, akaitapiitsinikssiistsi, ki nipaapao’kaanistsi. I will also need to develop a habit of respecting the advice of my own deeper intuition, and begin responding regularly to the voices of the sspommitapiiksi, ksaahkomitapiiksi, and soyiitapiiksi of kitawahsinnoon. My hope is that in blogging the present journal, Akayo’kaki A’pawaawahkaa, I can explore and perhaps realize this interest. And if nothing else, if the urge to renew strikes again, all I have to do is hit DELETE.